


Deconstructed

by poppysmc (dashboardconfessions)



Category: PlayChoices, Queen B (Visual Novel)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, architecture, sketch - freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:07:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26281654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashboardconfessions/pseuds/poppysmc
Summary: POPPY X MC AU WHERE THEY HAVEN’T MET YET, MORGAN’S A PART TIME ARCHITECTURE STUDENT IN NIGHT CLASSES (BECAUSE OF WORK) SHE’S ALSO A RESEARCH ASSISTANT FOR PROF. KINGSLEY  FOR HER SCHOLARSHIP. POPPY IS A BUSINESS MAJOR STUDENT, THE HEIR OF THEIR COMPANY AND UNDER CRIPPLING PRESSURE.I just couldn’t get the idea out of my head. I’m sorry for the spelling and grammar mistakes. English is not my first language.
Relationships: Poppy Min-Sinclair/Main Character (Queen B)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

It’s funny how just in a day your life changes. Sometimes life just doesn’t go the way that you planned it. 

Her father was an Architect who owned one of the leading firms in New York, but a few wrong investments, some projects that went wrong and clients who didn’t pay, all resulted in his ruin. They were forced to move back to their hometown, middle of nowhere Farmsville.

Morgan had dreamed of becoming an architect since she was a kid. She wanted to follow her father’s footsteps, she loved making concepts for buildings she’d build in her mind. She had a new goal, study architecture and revive her father’s firm. She felt the anguish that her father experienced, how his dreams were stomped on and how he gave up architecture all together. She didn’t want that for herself, she loved it and she’ll be dead long before she gives it up.

She enrolls herself in Belvoire University, one of the most exclusive universities in New York. In its early days it was mostly famous for their architecture program, until it changed somewhere in the 90′s, the faculty of architecture was shrunk down until, there’s only a few slots left each year and less than that as time passes, they were sidelined for the more popular business degrees.

Another reason why she wanted to go to Belvoire was because it was her father’s alma mater. All they could offer were night classes in architecture programs, which works out well for her because she applied for a job as well, to support her education, she didn’t want to put so much burden to her parents, especially since she chose such an expensive university to go to.

The dean offered her a job as a research assistant to one of their highly distinguished professor in Anthropology, who wanted to write a book about the students of Belvoire, she says that she was impressed with her profile and the thesis she’d done on Architectural Anthropology and how it shaped how people lived. She accepted immediately, how could she not? It was a full ride scholarship. All she had to worry about was her rent, food and other miscellaneous costs.

She had another job, a barista in a coffee shop close to campus. She was referred here by the Professor, she said it was the perfect place for research and watching their subjects up close and personal.

And that’s how she got started, a freshman at Belvoire University.

* * *

Poppy is a second year student at Belvoire’s College of Business and Finance. She was the heir of the Min-Sinclair company, primarily engaged in finance and bio-engineering. You could say, she’ll never want for anything that her parents could never get her, but the other side of the coin was an enormous amount of crippling pressure and expectations, as she was an only child.

She grew up spoiled and cut throat. She had a mantra she’d always repeated until it eventually became her motto: _“Second place is a loser with a silver medal. Never settle even if you’re number one.”_ She became harsh, demanding and a perfectionist to everyone, but hardest of all, to herself.

* * *

In the class of Professor Kingsley, ultimately their paths cross, it was unexpected, but in the end it’s a change both of them needed.

* * *

She started getting ready for her morning class, Anthropology 101. The day was like any other, ordinary. She contemplates if she should skip class, anthro was really not her forte, it was boring as hell. She wonders if she ever really needed this class, she just chose it randomly, as an elective. She decides to go to class anyway, she’s a Min-Sinclair, failure and idleness weren’t an option.

The class started like any other, the professor was droning on and on about the ‘best-selling’ book that she wrote, which none of the students ever read and cracks a few jokes here and there, she just scowls. Something was quite not right this day, she reaches for her bag at the compartment under her desk but her hands fall on something else.

She picks it up, it was a thick plain black sketchbook. She glances around the class, she sat at an empty row and no one dared to sit next to her, unless they wanted to experience her wrath. She opens it, looking for a name. She sees a slightly smudged initial in pencil: **MH.**

She flips through the other pages, it was half full of sketches of buildings, people and landscapes. She felt confused, there were no art courses in Belvoire, the person who owned it must be an artist at heart. She studied the drawings, how the strokes were confident and purposeful, she was amazed at the character it gave off, how this person captured life and told stories, it felt dynamic even in its stillness. She wanted to find the owner, out of curiosity and perhaps a little fondness for their talent.

And so she decides to keep it, she tears a small piece from the back page. She knows no one uses this desk, save for her, so it must be from the later classes in anthro. She starts to write a note to the stranger, something she never would be caught doing.

**_To the person who sat here and left their sketchbook:_ **

**_It’s with me, if you want it, find me. I’ll keep it safe for now._ **

**_-Poppy_**

She leaves it where she found the sketchbook. She tries to focus on the lecture but her mind tunes it out and she finds herself flipping through the pages over and over.

* * *

She heads towards campus, she was tired from her morning shift and was worried about her project, she hoped her sketchbook was still there where she left it, she can’t believe she left it yesterday at Professor Kingsley’s class. It was a plate for her architecture class, Visual Communications 101. She’ll be damned if she started over, she almost filled in half of the pages with some of her best works.

She walks faster, as the chill in the night clings in her skin. She looks over her usual desk but finds nothing, she looks under and finds a torn piece of paper, clearly from her book. She gets a little peeved. “Who the heck would tear it off? I swear if it’s ruined I’ll be pissed.” She opens the note and reads the looping letters. “A girl? I’m glad it’s safe.” She writes back:

**_Give it back, I need it for a project. Just leave it here and stop tearing the pages!_ **

**_-Morgan_**

She’s worried that she won’t be able to get it back anyway, maybe it’s just a prank. She might as well play on the safe side and start another one, at least until she can get it back. She focuses on class; she has a meeting with the professor about the research they’ll be conducting later, she was not looking forward for another long night.

* * *

She was waiting for someone to pick up the sketchbook. “Did they read my note?” When no one came, she feels somewhat disappointed that she won’t meet the owner and artist of the book. She leaves for class, keeping the sketchbook tucked in a drawer at her desk.

She checks for her note and finds that someone wrote on the back. “Morgan huh?” She writes on another piece of paper, from her notebook this time.

**_No, what if somebody else finds it and how do I know if it’s even yours? You could be an impostor, prove that it’s yours._ **

**_-P_ **

****

She slips it back. This time she listens to her professor discussing the stupid book again. _“Can’t she move on?”_ She whispers under her breath. Chloe and Veronica texts her, asking if she wanted to go shopping later. “Finally something else to look forward to.”

* * *

She picks up the note and reads it over. This girl was frustrating, she’s glad she made the right decision of starting another sketchbook yesterday, which thankfully turned out to be better than the other. What made her continue to write the stranger was beyond her, maybe because she had nothing better to do.

**_Of course it’s mine._ **

**_-M_**

She draws a rough sketch of Belvoire’s clock tower at the back. She doodles on the page absentmindedly, barely listening to her professor.

_What do you think are the ways in which culture is affected or changed? Morgan?_

She stares blankly into space. “Morgan!” The professor is expectantly looking at her. “Uhh, can you repeat the question Professor?” The class chuckles at her, the professor smiles as well and repeats the question.

She answers confidently, sometimes research with your anthro professor comes in handy.


	2. Chapter 2

**POPPY'S POV**

Can you say her relationship with her parents were strained? The answer as always, a resounding yes. Poppy replies in a monotone voice, ears glued to the phone for close to thirty minutes now. She was getting agitated, it’s not like she hates her parents but they’re being too overbearing and putting an enormous amount of pressure on her with every call.

_“Remember to do well in school, you’re a Min-Sinclair, not to mention the successor of the company, your A- last semester is the start of your plunging grades.”_

“Okay, I’m doing my best.”

_“Are you sure that’s the best you can do? You must always be number 1 at everything; second place is not enough.”_

“Yes Mom, Please I’ve got to go, I have class in five.”

_“Wait, just to remind you, when you go home for your break, your father wants you to meet your fiancee.”_

“What? I don’t know if-”

_“Don’t humiliate us again by not coming, Poppy. Your father worked hard for this.”_

“Mom, you can’t just-”

_“Listen Poppy, we already let your ‘preference’ slide, now we found a highly respectable woman here for you. Please, do not embarrass us. Listen, I have to go to a meeting. I love you.”_

Poppy couldn’t keep the tears from falling, she hates her life. How could her parents live her life for her and sign it over to someone she hasn’t even met yet? Everything was so unfair, but she couldn’t hate her parents, they gave her everything she wanted. But at what cost?

She decides to miss her class just this time, just one class. She needed to compose herself and right now she’s on the brink of a breakdown. She lays in her bed and sobs.

* * *

**MORGAN'S POV**

Morgan goes to class, she sees her note from the previous night untouched and unanswered. She sighs and puts it back in place. _Why does she feel disappointed? She doesn’t even know this Poppy girl._ She shakes her head and focuses on something else. Thankfully, the professor walks in and starts her class. She absently doodles all over her notes, a habit she picked up since middle school. It caused her a lot of trouble but she loves it, and she throws it all away after.

This time she tears it off and folds it in quarters, leaving it under her table next to the note.

* * *

She finally has some free time to work on her plates, she has no classes after anthro and Prof. Kingsley gave her some time off. She stays up for the better part of the night drawing in her sketchbook, she tears a page off when her mind drifts and sketches something unrelated. She manages to fill ten pages before she gives up and lays in her bed.

She was curious as to what Poppy looked like, was she like the students she and the professor study? _God I hope not, that would be bad._ She falls asleep a little while later, dreaming of a blonde girl with brown eyes, one she’ll soon forget once she wakes up.

* * *

**POPPY'S POV**

“Okay enough moping.” Poppy psyches herself up, repeating her mantra over and over, until she’s confident enough to walk through the halls of Belvoire without letting anyone see through her.

She almost forgets about the note, she was too fixated on not dropping her mask. She reaches under when she remembered, it lifts her spirit a little. _“Two notes this time?”_ She reads the note she left, studying the sketch at the back. _“It is theirs_.” She whispers, and the guy in front glances up at her. She glares, making him turn back. She looks at the other page, it was filled with doodles and some notes about their anthro class.

She studies the strokes again, how they’re much more playful this time. She smiles and slips it in her purse, just as the professor comes in. She tears off another page off her notes.

**_So, it is yours. You draw beautifully. When will you get the book?_ **

**_-P_ **

****

She tries her hand at doodling a little bit and finally gives up, she has almost little to none artistic talent. She strikes out what little doodle she did, folding the note and leaving it under. The smear she left in the note bothered her but she tries hard to not think about it.

She keeps the other notes Morgan tucked inside the pocket of her sketchbook, she takes it and flips through it once again. She feels kind of sad to be parted with it when it’s owner picks it up. She’s surprised by the tears dotting one of the sketches. _“Oh god, I hope they won’t be mad about this.”_ She tries to wipe it away, but it smudges some of the pencil work.

The narrative of the drawing changed, it looked gloomy and bleak. It made her slightly happy, not because she ruined it, but because she felt like she changed it, had an inkling of control over something and created another. _She will definitely miss this sketchbook._

* * *

Morgan sighs, mulling over if she wants it back. _Was it even worth the trouble?_ She barely has any free time, between work, classes and her research job. _“Maybe she can have it. She can throw it away or whatever.”_

**It’s too late, I already started on another, I figured you won’t give it back. Sorry I misjudged you. Anyway, you can have it, do whatever you want with it.**

**PS. Why did you scratch over your doodle, the bear was pretty cute.**

**-M**

She doodles another at the back, taking inspiration from her drawing. She smiles and leaves it for her.

* * *

**POPPY'S POV**

She didn’t look forward to class today, she wonders if she could just pretend that she lost the note and didn’t reply to Morgan. She didn’t want to give it back, plain and simple.

She trudges to class anyway, her mood turning sour. Everyone steers clear of her on her way to class, they didn’t want to be another subject of her annoyance. She reaches under and slowly peels the note open. She grins when she reads it. _“I can have it!”_ She excitedly writes a note back.

**_Thank you! It’ll be safe with me. I suck at doodling that’s why I erased it. I was beginning to worry, because I ruined one of your drawings accidentally._**

**_PS. It wasn’t a bear, it was a dog. See? Now this is a bear._ **

**_-P_**

She tries to draw another doodle, a bear just like Morgan thought, which she somehow unintentionally made to resemble a jellyfish. This is the happiest she has felt in a long time. She actually listens to the lecture and jots down notes.


	3. Chapter 3

**MORGAN'S POV**

Hell was beginning to look much better than her shift. Who knew Uni students can be so demanding?

She was on her blessed break, jotting down observations of the students in their natural habitat. She’s sat at a secluded corner of the shop, with a perfect view of the frenzied environment. The coffee shop was filled to the brim with the pompous students from Belvoire. She can see them split into groups, she writes that fact down for her research.

Her manager clears his throat behind her. “Morgan, this table is for customers only, get back to work.” He was a thin, little man, with a gaunt face and greying hair in his temples, his expression was severe, maybe because of years of doing nothing but be dissatisfied and years spent on customer service. _Customer service sucks your soul._

“You know my break is 45 minutes, Steve. Besides I paid for this coffee and sandwich.” She replies, a slight bite evident in her voice.

“Whatever, go to your station as soon as you’re done. Showing a little bit of respect won’t kill you.” He reprimands her, unimpressed by her reply.

“Okay, I got it.” She doesn’t pay him any mind. She knows that she’s never abused the company policy, Steve just has it out for her ever since she started here. His reason? Only he and God knows.

She writes down more of her observations and she glances at her watch. _“I still have 20 minutes. I’m not going to give you a crumb of my break, Steve.”_ She takes the sketchbook from her bag, she starts working on another drawing.

The deadline for this plate is coming closer, between work, research and mountains of other projects and assignments, she’s spending whatever tiny scrap of time she has to catch up on her school work, even if that means that she gets to spend just five minutes eating lunch in favor of other things. Time management has always been the bane of her existence, the dark circles in her eyes are proof enough.

The bell jingles, and the coffee shop is plunged into silence. She looks up from her drawing, craning her neck to get a view of who entered. She sees a girl walk in, the afternoon sun surrounds her, almost like a halo. She notices that none of the customers even bothered to look up to see her walk in. A few seconds of stillness passes before everybody starts talking again. _“Did an angel just walk in?”_

Morgan sees her from afar and she’s taken aback by her beauty, the other girls are pretty, sure, but she was a whole other league above them. She immediately flips over to the next page, her previous drawing forgotten. She sketches her, the lighting and the angle was perfect, the shadows cast on her face were immaculate, bringing even more depth of character to her face. She sketches her mid-motion. Something was wrong, she can’t quite capture her eyes. She was dumbfounded, she tries to subtly glance at her again and put her features on paper. “Why can’t I get it right?”

She was so frustrated; she erases her eyes again and again. She runs her hands on the paper, it’s texture was ruined by the number of times she erased it. She was missing something and she doesn’t know what and it’s bothering her.

She glances at her watch, _5 minutes_. “I guess I won’t finish you today.” Morgan closes her sketchbook and just as she tucks it in her bag someone clears their throat. She’s face to face with her subject, she can’t help but stare at her eyes, searching for what she missed. _Wait, her mouth is moving._

“-the others are occupied.” The girl finishes speaking and she didn’t hear a word she was saying.

“I’m sorry?” Morgan asks dumbly.

“Can I share your table?” The girl repeats back at her, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“It’s okay, I’m done here anyway.” Morgan immediately stands and gathers her things. She won’t occupy a table if the customer asked for it, Steve will fire her instantly when he sees her sharing it with a customer.

She quickly goes back to her station, with minutes to spare. Glaring at the smug expression on Steve’s face. She looks back at her previous table, she drops down suddenly, breaking eye contact, she was shocked at the piercing eyes directed at her.

“Hey, dropped something?” Her co-worker looks at her strangely.

“No, I was just tying my shoelaces.”

“Okay, well Steve’s glaring at you. Here, make this order.”

“Sure.” Morgan sighs, making exaggerated movements to assure him that she’s doing her job.

She continued making drinks for the rest of her shift, she could finally move freely when the girl left the shop after an hour. She can feel her eyes burning at her back the whole time. Her intense gaze was imprinted on her mind; her hands were itching to draw her again.

She makes a quick change back at the locker room after her shift, she dashes towards school. “Curse you Steve!” She uses several expletives to express her anger, after he made her stay behind to clean up.

It’d be rude to skip Prof. Kingsley’s class, being her research assistant and all that. She’s out of breath but she makes it on time, she takes her usual seat and excitedly feels for a letter.

Morgan chuckles at her attempt at sketching. _Okay, this girl is pretty cute_ , she folds the note neatly, tucking it in her wallet. She tears a new note and writes her back.

**_I totally knew it was a dog and your bear is pretty cute too. It’s fine, I’m happy that it’s in good hands. I’m curious, what made you continue to write back?_ **

**PS** **_I hope you have a good day today._**

**_-M_**

She draws Poppy’s namesake at the bottom and a silly drawing of the sun shining at it. She hates to admit it but these little notes are slowly becoming the highlight of her day.

She takes out her back up sketchbook and practices drawing the girl’s eyes, she wouldn’t leave her mind. _What was she missing?_ After drawing it several times she finally figures it out, her drawing was lifeless and empty. She couldn’t quite capture the underlying emotion in her eyes. She silently hopes that she’ll come around again, so she can figure it out.

She runs across campus to her next class, Design 1, every Thursdays and Fridays. She hated the fact that it’s all the way on the other side and Belvoire is massive.

Her professor was an old woman, a little eccentric, but what architect isn’t? She retired from practicing years ago and decided to share her wisdom to the ‘future world builders’, as she liked to call them. It was her favorite class; she could let her creativity flow freely.

Her flowing dress flutters as she walks around, speaking to each of her students. “I’ll let you explore your concepts, class. Think of a ‘parti’, a core of your practice, the one that drives you.” She was delighted by the fresh faces of her freshman students. Only few architects retain this outlook, moving forward in their practice. She wanted them to be driven, to fight for something and to build the core of their practice with their inspirations and motivations. When they have that, no matter what happens they will persevere and build things they’ll forever be proud of.

She continues to find out what the core of her practice was. She has the whole semester to figure it out.

* * *

**POPPY'S POV**

She was crumbling, she was trapped in an air-tight container breathing in water. There is no relief and no air to breathe, she has no choice but to drown painfully and slowly.

Her alarm breaks her out of her nightmare, she hurriedly turns it off. She hated that sound, but like everything in her life she kept it because of the sense of familiarity. She stares unblinking at the canopy of her four-poster bed for a few minutes before she pads over to the bathroom and splashes water in her face, her knuckles white from gripping the edges of her sink, trying to hopelessly ground herself. She was overwhelmed, her recurring nightmares were coming back full swing after the phone call with her Mom.

Memories come flooding back to her and the unsavory emotions coming with it. Arguments about her sexuality, how she wasn’t good enough and how she was a continuous disappointment to her parents. Tears stream down her face, hearing the wicked voices repeating every failure and reprimand she received. She sinks down to the floor, the cold tile biting into her knees and soon she was gasping for air.

“Sink, towel, mirror, tiles, granite, glass.” She names the things she sees, a tip her therapist taught her on how to stop a panic attack. She felt empty, there was no one else to rely on but herself. Her mind brought out all her demons and it will try to calm itself down, a cycle she never manages to break. She stands up, her legs a little shaky from her episode. She schools her face, slipping her mask back in place and steps into the shower, preparing for another day.

Poppy heads to class, her morning breakdown pushed deeply in the back of her mind. She walks, head held high. _I am the queen, I am number one,_ she says it over and over in her head, until even she begins to believe it. Her exterior was ice cold, impenetrable and untouchable but inside she was full of unrelenting chaos and persistent storms. The crowd parts for her, some sprinting out of the way. She looks at them, reminded that the power she held here in Belvoire was worth nothing to her parents. She wanted the day to be over, she already spent all of her energy and she barely made a dent in the morning.

A small smile graces the corner of her lips, she remembered her notes. She excitedly feels for it under her desk, she opens it and she almost tears up, this is the first time someone wished her a good day, not out of obligation or a twisted script. It was a small thing, maybe Morgan wasn’t thinking about it too much, but for her, it has a huge impact on her day. _Why did she keep on writing?_

She felt pathetic writing someone a short note but having multiple drafts. She hated erasures and imperfections.

**_You said what you said. I’m not going to draw on this one. Honestly? I started writing because I love your drawings, I was interested in exploring the mind of its owner. What are you like, Morgan?_ **

****

**_PS I hope your day will be better than mine._ **

**_-P_**

She decided to be honest after her third draft, maybe Morgan lives under a rock and doesn’t know who she was, if she did, she made no mention of it. She just wanted someone who she could talk to and she receives it in a form of a stranger with a different perspective.


	4. Chapter 4

**MORGAN POV**

It’s Friday morning and she looked straight out of the walking dead. She stayed up all night finishing her plates. It was the first semester and she was close to dying, she gave her father a lot of credit for graduating well and alive. School might be grueling but she loved every second of it.

She drags herself to her shift, cursing her manager for the extra hour he demands for his totally nonsense meeting every morning. She makes herself presentable, finally looking like a normal human and less on her ‘death’s doorstep’ kind of vibe. Steve is droning on and on about company policy, she can almost recite the handbook word for word because of these useless meetings.

Their first customers come in, it was some straggling students in the same position as her. Zombies, all of them. She does a great job of keeping up with the endless stream of orders, even with her manager watching her like a hawk.

“Please Sammy cover for me, I’m going on my lunch break.” She whispers to Sam, a woman a couple of years older than her, she was her only tether to reality and the only one keeping her sane in her job.

“Better slip away fast, while his back is turned.” Her co-worker smiles at her, handing her usual order. She buys her own lunch instead of living off the ‘free coffee’ deal from the store, the coffee tasted like lukewarm water mixed with three specks of ground up coffee bean - for colour. Her water colour wash tasted better, she knows that because she pulled an all-nighter and in her exhaustion she reached for the wrong jar instead of her coffee, that instantly woke her up. She still shudders at the taste but that was infinitely better that Steve’s free coffee.

She sits at her usual chair, right beside a panel of floor to ceiling windows, the spot was hidden by decorative trellises, separate from the other tables. No one sits there save for her… and the girl from yesterday apparently. Surprisingly the lunch crowd wasn’t as busy as yesterday’s, so she has nothing noteworthy to write down for the professor. So instead she grabs her sketchbook and sits across from where the girl was sitting yesterday. She tries to imagine her, as if they’re face to face, she tries to draw her again. Her drawing was different, she was smiling back at her, the same small smile she shot her yesterday. She wasn’t satisfied but she’s getting there. Just another chance to glance at her then she’ll get it.

She doesn’t come this day. She squashes her disappointment, explaining it off as her unfinished work endlessly bothering her. She looks at her sketch, it looked like her but the feeling wasn’t right but she doesn’t tear it off, deciding to leave it, imagining her version of the blonde girl smiling back, sitting in front of her.

In between the lull of customers, she asks her colleague about the girl from yesterday, curiosity getting the better of her.

“Which one?” Her friend becomes interested, shooting her a knowing look.

“The one who came in while I was having lunch.” She asks her, Sammy looks at her blankly. “Strawberry blonde? Half Asian? The one who sat by my table.” She describes her to the best of her memory, she was reluctant to show her an unfinished sketch, she thinks it’s a little stalkerish to ask what underlying emotion was shown in a customer’s eyes.

“I don’t recall, as far as I know you’re the only one who always sits at that table.” Her co-worker nonchalantly says.

“What I don’t recall is paying you two to chat all day.” Her manager interjects, just when she’s about to speak.

“Well sorry Steve, it’s just small talk, Sorry for making you all wait.” She gestures at the empty store, as if speaking to a crowd. “There are no customers yet, no need to get your panties in a bunch.” Her co-worker, Sammy rolls her eyes. She looks wide eyed at her, stifling her laughter while he’s increasingly getting red in the face.

“Well, do something productive and clean the tables, Morgan.No need to stand around doing nothing all day.” He walks away, not before shooting them both a venomous glare. _Blame it on Morgan, Steve’s favorite past time._

“You’ll get us in deep trouble with that mouth of yours, Sam. Anyway thanks for the interrogation, I’ll go wipe the spotless tables again before Steve blows a gasket.” She waves, walking around the counter to the tables.

Excluding her ill-tempered manager, she loved the ambiance of the coffee shop, the floor to ceiling windows on one side showed varying shades of greenery from the nearby park, it looked peaceful in contrast with the busy and grimy streets of New York, she gets why students love it here. Another bonus were the framed photos and art on the brick wall, she loved studying each one, the best part about them are that they’re sourced from local artists around their block, some donated by students and alumni who loved the coffee shop during their school days. It’d be nice to have your artwork framed and hanged here, though none of the students ever looked up from their phones long enough to notice, well almost no one, except for the girl from yesterday who glanced up, inspecting each one, but weirdly her gaze lingered on a blank space of the wall. _Maybe she’s thinking of donating one of her own works._ Her mind drifts back to her, she shakes her head to clear her thoughts.

She looks by the windows, drawn in by a flash of blonde hair in her periphery, the exact shade as the girl’s, she looks around but she sees no one. _What am I doing. Time to step back, I’m getting a little too fixated and now I’m seeing things._ She finishes her task quickly and goes back to her station as soon as customers came in.

* * *

“What am I like?” She re-reads the notes over and over, feeling elated at Poppy’s comment. _She loved my drawings._

She thinks it over, but if she’s being honest she felt like she’s a little boring, all she ever did was work, sleep and study. What’s to tell? She mulls it over for a moment, failing to notice that class was already over until Kingsley asks her if she needed to consult her about something. She realized she’s still clutching the note and Kingsley looks curiously at her, she slips it in her pocket.

“No Professor, I just got distracted. Have a good weekend.” She waves before sprinting away. She glances at her watch and she’s 10 minutes late to her next class. She chastises herself for spending time staring into space, thinking about what to write back. She catches her breath before she quietly opens the door to her design class.

The professor waves her in. _Thank god she’s not strict unlike her other professors._ She sits at the back and listens to the tail end of the discussion about their final plate. Scale models? She loved scale models, it was one of her hobbies back in high school, helping out her father with scale model presentations. Their design problem was how would they design a resilient building when New York sinks in the ocean. A little morose but with the trend in global warming it’s sure to happen.

Everybody groans, it was a hard problem with a reality bound solution. She thinks about it, a challenge, a real test in inventiveness. As tradition the best project from the class will be put on a display in a glass case in the faculty’s exhibit hall, probably gathering dust like the rest of the others.

The professor explains that she was preparing them for harder and more complex design problems, one where their concepts are bent and tested if they can be built in the real world or do they sound outlandish and better left on paper. She starts sketching some ideas for the rest of her class.

* * *

She walks back to her crappy studio apartment, it was almost dawn, she fishes her keys while holding back a yawn. She thinks about her schoolwork and how she’s probably going to drop dead in exhaustion if she so much as thinks about doing any more plates. Her phone vibrates in her pockets and she answers it as she tries to open her door.

“Hey.” She greets, her phone clutched between her shoulder and ear. _God damn lock, always sticking._ She jiggles it, almost forgetting she’s on the phone with someone.

“-this Saturday, are you good?” _Ugh it’s Steve._ She shouldn’t have answered.

“I'm sorry, the reception sucks. Can you repeat it?”

“Seriously Morgan, stop being spaced-out all the time. You don’t have class on Saturday’s right? I need you to come in tomorrow for closing shift.” She could hear him bristle. _Was it worth it to annoy him more?”_

“But I have plates to finish.” She whines, feeling helpless she knows he’s not accepting of the word no.

“We’re understaffed, I need you to cooperate and be a team player. I’ll make an exception; you can do some of your projects when it’s not busy.” She can see through his thinly veiled deception, using her conscience against her. _As if I can refuse, you’ll be harder on me if I did._

“Fine.” She grits through her teeth. She can hear him sigh in relief. She’s become another gullible employee.

“Come in at 5. Don’t be late.” He hangs up before she comes to her senses and backs out. _Classic Steve._

* * *

**POPPY POV**

It was Friday noon and she goes back to the Zeta house, her mood slightly alleviated from Morgan’s little notes. Someone knocks on the door as soon as she lays on her bed. _Can’t I catch a break?_ She stands and opens the door, whoever thought to disturb her better be ready to face her wrath.

Her rage melts into confusion. Her mother’s chauffeur was poised outside the door mid-knock. His eyes widen at the look of anger directed at him. 

“Miss Min-Sinclair, your mother summons you for a weekend high tea this afternoon and to tell you to dress accordingly, _it’s with the other New York socialites_.” The chauffeur reluctantly says, whispering the last part for her sake.

“Why didn’t she call ahead to inform me?” She asks, slight tinge on annoyance in her voice.

Her chauffeur shrugs in response, slightly apologetic for dropping in unannounced. She sighs and tells her driver to wait. She hurriedly changes into something stylish and elegant, she settles for a sequined, black sleeveless cocktail dress that stopped around mid-thigh, she grabs her purse. She does something unusual, she digs through her desk and slips in the sketch book, it has an uncanny way of making her smile and something is telling her to be prepared for anything.

She sighs and hurries along, it’s better to just go with it rather than face her mother’s annoyance, she’s someone who harbors hate for being slighted.

“Morgan please support me.” She names her sketchbook Morgan after its owner. She knows it’s pathetic to depend on a sketchbook to calm her down, but at this point anything is better than being unprepared to face her mother.

That’s how she finds herself staring out the back seat of her mother’s black town car, driven to a shit show. She leans forward suddenly, asking her driver to stop, something caught her eye. She rolls the window down and looks at the coffee shop the one she started going to last week. She thought she saw the barista who she sat with yesterday.

“Everything okay Miss? Did you forget something?” Her driver asks her through the partition.

“No, never mind. Let’s go.” She leans back in her seat, rolling up her window. She must have imagined it, inspecting the other baristas in the counter, no trace of her.

She mentally prepares herself for what’s to come, she hated playing the socialite game, it drains her too much. All their fake smiles and laughs, even faker compliments agitated her to no end. But even Belvoire couldn’t save her from her mother’s clutches, pulling her back when she thought she’s escaped. She repeats her mantra over and over, until the ride is over.

She schools her face to an impassive expression, her back ramrod straight and her chin held high. She must look professional and elegant, smiling enough to be approachable but distant enough for the crowd not to mistake her politeness for friendship. Make no mistakes and no missteps, don’t show any trace of weakness or they’ll converge upon you like hungry sharks and you’re the only meal in the ocean. 

The doors were opened wide and she enters, all eyes fall on her. She steels herself as she walks forward, her mother weaves through the crowd and approaches her as soon as she stepped inside, she’s wearing a mask of her own, a doting mother excited to see her child again. But she never held her or was she present in her crucial growing years. She bore hatred for herself, as she clutches her mother’s hand, always trying hard, always longing for her mother’s affection, no matter how minuscule it may be.

She plays her role perfectly, a well-mannered young heiress, untouchable, demure but not fragile, like her mother’s favorite china plate on display for everybody. They smile at each other and join the crowd, her mother whispers; _Don’t disappoint me, there are investors amongst the crowd._

She smiles politely at the individuals her mother introduces her to, names already slipping off her mind. She’s careful, with every step, in every sip and in everything she does, she doesn’t need any more ammo for her mother to shoot her with. _Don’t talk too loud, laugh to loud, your smile looked forced, don’t slap his hand away he’s an investor._ She may not make her proud but at least she’s not disappointed with her performance.

Her mother asks her to stay for a night, so she’ll be on time for tomorrow’s lunch with her book club. She just had to introduce her to her very good friend Emily, whose son had just become a doctor. It’s another game of how she can stretch her skills and achievements, lording it over her friends as she acts like a proud mother. She already dreads it; the look of trepidation must be showing in her face, her mother tries to reassure her, a sprinkle of gas lighting here and there, preying on her endless need to please her parents.

She says yes and politely excuses herself, going back to her childhood bedroom, locking herself in.

“Not now please. Later.” She bargains with herself, trying to calm down a panic attack rising in her chest. She slides to the floor, her back against the door. She reaches for her purse, taking the sketchbook out and flipping through the pages, her breathing slowly goes back to normal, her mind occupied with studying the sketches. She flips to the blank page after the last sketch. She writes, a thank you to Morgan, what she felt this day, using it almost like a journal. She’s got no intention of make anyone read it nor for Morgan to see it, she just wanted to clear her head, line things up and figure everything out.

**August 14**

**Dear Morgan,**

**Today has been a terrible day, I’m so, so tired and I don’t think I can’t stomach forcing any more fake smiles. I only made it out alive today because of sheer will, your little note from earlier and this sketchbook. Tomorrow is another charade and I don’t have enough energy for it.**

**xPoppy**

People always whispered that she was hollow, a shell of a young woman who has no personality and no emotions. But that’s a lie, in fact she feels too much, keeping it inside, a muddle of boiling and festering emotions. Her facade was as cold as ice, no one ever came close to knowing her, so what do they know? It’s a dog eat dog game she plays with others of her kind.

She showers, her pretense melting away and flowed out with the water. She felt so weak and vulnerable, she wanted to be anywhere but here. It no longer felt like a home, it felt stifling, almost like a prison- no, a display case with strangers staring into their lives, she hated it. One of their maids beckoned her down for dinner. _How much is it worth to just skip it all together?_ She decides against it, remembering her mother’s ire and the consequence her actions would have.

“I’m a Min-Sinclair, I don’t cower in my room.” She whispers over and over, as she wore one of her old dresses down to dinner. Every step felt like she’s coming closer to her execution, she pauses at the double doors of the dining room. “Since when did it looked even more daunting?” She hesitantly opens it, her mother already sitting in place. The table setting placed her on the opposite end of a long table. Her mother looked imposing, no longer warm like she masqueraded earlier. She glances at the head of the table, he’s not here again. She had almost forgotten her father’s face, his presence was barely perceptible.

“He’s not here, he’s on a business trip for a month.” Her mother answers her unvoiced questions, barely audible because of their distance. From her mother’s crossed eyebrows and mouth twisted in contempt, she figured that the business trip was code for his mistress. 

“But you understand right? Your father works hard to provide for his family, like anyone should.” Her mother masks her expression, a small smile that’s barely lifting the corners of her lips was directed at her. _How much effort did smiling take?_ She pretends to be oblivious to everything. She despised her father, why weren’t they enough? They always did this, not talking about things and pretending that nothing’s wrong so the issues never existed in the first place.

They ate in silence, the only sound is the gentle scraping of their forks. She barely eats anything, choosing to move her food around. There’s nothing to talk about, her mother’s never one to be involved in her life, except when she’s steering it to her satisfaction. Waiting for an acceptable enough time to leave, she politely excuses herself once she’s done. She slowly walks up to her room glancing around the house, it looked unfamiliar, like she’s moving through someone else’s home. _Could I make it through the weekend?_


	5. Chapter 5

**Poppy POV**

Poppy sits up in bed at the break of dawn, her head was heavy from the lack of sleep. She could barely get a wink of sleep last night, she was too agitated about the book club. She clutches her pounding head, she has no high hopes for today.

* * *

“Remember my good friend Emily? Her family owns a share in one of our subsidiaries, oh don’t forget to congratulate her on her son becoming a doctor. God knows she wouldn’t shut up about it.” Her mother stares at her to make sure she’s listening.

She nods and commits that tidbit of information in her mental catalog, ready to pull out in a pinch. They never once spoke about her mother’s friends casually. How could they? She could barely say a word of greeting in between her mother’s endless lectures of her ‘abysmal’ achievements in Uni and her responsibilities to the company. It’s not as if she’s going to speak anyway, she’s there just for display.

All she could stomach were a few bites of their breakfast before she stood up and excused herself immediately.

What do you even wear to a book club? She opens her door and looks at an outfit already laid out for her. She sighs in relief, another tick checked, lessening her anxiety a little.

She wore a pink sun dress, coming down to mid-thigh with pink flowers. A little tacky, she guessed her mother’s going for a demure feminine look. She wondered what role she’ll play today, what her mother told her friends about her. She wears her hair down, deciding against a tight bun, it makes her head split from the tension.

She looks at her phone, seeing she’s still got at least an hour left. Judging from the company her mother keeps they’ll be fashionably late as always. She sometimes wondered why she keeps playing this charade when there’s nothing to accomplish and nothing to gain.

* * *

**MORGAN POV**

Architecture is an alluring but cruel mistress. Sometimes she could swear that it’s an untameable beast, beautiful and imposing. You could only hope to be a small part of her, bringing about either your salvation or your ruin. You give up millions of minutes pondering and studying even before you can practice. Thousands of hours of critical thinking and outpouring of creativity and it will never be enough. One simple flaw can make your design topple over, making you scrap everything and start over.

Then she remembers why she loves it, it was art in large scale, practical and living sculptures. She thinks about the marvels of the ancient world, of what would become of her projects in fifty years, in a hundred? Would it inspire or would it gather criticism? The judgement of architecture was subjective and like a coin there will always be two sides, always clashing together. Even in your rest you think about her, what impact you gave to the field you dedicated your life to. Thousands of men and women died with their unfinished works, never to grace our eyes.

Morgan woke up around 7 am. She scratches her head, was it weird to wax poetic about architecture even in her dreams? She shakes it of. She’s got to no time to ponder, she needed to be productive and finish something today or the deadlines next week will kill her and toast her into ashes. School sometimes makes her stir crazy, questioning herself on why she chose this torturous course.

“Start with the easy stuff.” She sing-songs to herself as she comes out of the shower. She looks around her room, a cluttered mess from her productivity hurricane 2 nights ago. She groans, it’ll be a pain to clean up.

She decided on her sketchbook first, it’s just 12 more pages left blank. Her mind stalls and comes up empty. “I can’t work like this.” She slips her sketchbook and drawing implements in her satchel. She couldn’t take being stuck inside where there’s no inspiration and no new ideas flowing in her brain.

Her last sketches were mostly portraits, so she changes everything up. She ended up sitting at a bus stop for a while, sketching some brownstone townhouses, she found comfort in drawing its repetitiveness. She clutches her book and walks around aimlessly, stopping when she sees a massive Gothic church and walks inside.

She looks up, completely enamored by its magnificence. How could she begin to capture the light shining through the stained glass? It bathed everything in color and shadow, her monochrome drawing could never bring it justice. In its radiance it gave birth to the contrasting darkness. She understood why people liked going to church, this moment is the closest she felt to divinity. She felt the euphoria and peace within the quiet walls, it consumed her and freed her all at once.

Sometimes she wished she has four more hands, maybe then she could finish everything a little earlier. She snaps the finished sketchbook closed, she’ll miss it. Finally, she’s getting somewhere in the swamp of schoolwork, she chuckles to herself and stretches.

She walks the long way back to her apartment, taking her time to enjoy the scenery. It all looked like something to sketch, everything broke up into simple planes, lines, highlights and shadows. She raised her hand and traced everything she found interesting with her finger. She admired the buildings and thought about how those materials were once a part of nature, sculpted and pounded into the desired material the architect wanted.

The limestone from a newly constructed building gleamed brightly against the mid-day sun, she thought about how in mere months New York will leave its mark on it. The stone was living and breathing like us, telling a story to those who took time to stop and look. The glass was reflective and light weight. From a simple grain of sand put under extreme heat and pressure giving birth to the thousands of spans of curtain walls.

The steel frame, the building’s skeleton. It stood strong and steady, giving the building its height and strength, enabling man-made structures to scrape the sky. How long did it take to extract iron from the rocks, days? Months or more? Then they sit there hidden, given skin to hide their character.

She passes by the old buildings of brutalist style. Giant hunks of concrete suspended in time and anchored safely in reality. They looked massive, heavy and unforgiving, like a monolith dropped in the middle of the city, a memory of an architectural style that’s long passed. The barest of materials unfinished and rough, out of place in the modern and contemporary buildings of the city, that in itself made it unique.

She imagined herself working on a design problem, how her building would stand and materials she’ll use. She observed the people, their habits, movements and what will become of them when New York sinks. She hated to think about it, but when it happens were better off prepared, all they could do was adapt and continue living like humans always do.

She leaves early for work after finishing what she could manage, maybe she could still have for a quick coffee before her shift, the shop was just a 15-minute walk from her apartment. Morgan borrowed an apron from her friend Sam, her’s was still at the laundry. She cursed her manager for the short notice.

* * *

**POPPY'S POV**

Poppy was utterly spent, she’s sat in the backseat of the town car heading back to Belvoire. She vacantly stares out the window watching the buildings blur. She thinks about what happened back at the book club and how her mother must despise her even more.

Her mother already hated her proclivities and she never fails to remind her that what she wanted wasn’t normal despite their reluctant acceptance. The look of superiority in Emily’s face raises goose bumps along her skin. The smell of blood in the water, they’re closing in. Oh god they know.

Apparently, she’s been the talk of the society for a few months, some were discretely talking behind their backs and some like her mother’s tight knit circle were shameless enough to ask. By the looks of it they’ll ask about her being gay, no matter how her mother expertly steers them from the subject. She wished she could forget the awkwardness following the discussion, if she could just bury her head and forget everything.

She remembered the desperation in her mother’s face as she cried and begged her to take everything back when she came out to her. _“Think about what the others will say about us behind our backs.”_ Reputation has a limit and her mother wasn’t willing to find out what happens when it runs out. She feared that they’ll say she wasn’t a good enough mother, not enough for her husband and now her daughter becomes gay. It hurts her, she worked hard for the family’s reputation, to be accepted by the society and almost eradicating any trace of her Asian descent just to fit in and sometimes she begins to forget her heritage trying to fit in.

She’s secretly proud that Poppy continued to study their Korean heritage behind closed doors. People don’t know the amount of hard work and pain she had to endure just to be in this position, how she took everything in stride when people started talking behind her back and now the very same people who oppressed her are now her friends. She’s in the company of vipers and she prefers this, it will be easier to keep an eye on them and to keep them in line.

She wanted to protect her daughter in her own way, no matter how misguided. Poppy may not appreciate how much she needed the lessons she taught now but someday she’ll realize it’s value.

* * *

Poppy was surprised when her parents decided to embrace her sexuality instead, people won’t talk behind your back when you’re an open book. Her mother faced the society fearlessly, challenging them to say something against the Min-Sinclairs.

Poppy hated how medieval an arranged marriage this day and age, and for what? Convenience, favors and whatever else the society deemed worthy to account for a spouse? She hated how her parents valued a good match in her expense. Just because her parents were arranged doesn’t mean she had to follow their footsteps, look at what it made them, not broken but hanging off the hinges pretending to be whole.

Poppy’s parents can only give her a distorted expression of love, a misleading and dangerous idea that they’re doing what’s best for her. Poppy felt sick to her stomach, her inescapable fate felt like a black mass hanging over her head. She thinks about a distant life where she could be free to choose.

Her tears fell unbidden. She knows she isn’t happy, but knowing and admitting were two different things and she finally admitted it to herself. She wanted something beyond this life, a purpose that was her own.

* * *

Poppy makes the driver stop in front of the coffee shop. It looked inviting, the soft warm light shined like a beacon in the cold embrace of the night. She needed warmth, a moment to herself before she comes back to Uni. It looked deserted save for a few straggling students cramming projects not sparing a glance at her, eyes glued to their computers.

Poppy walks to her usual chair, a small smile gracing her face in greeting. “So we meet again.” She looked around at the cluttered table but this is her go to spot and she hated breaking her habits, it makes her antsy.

“Oh. Do you need to sit here? I could go.” Morgan jumps in surprise and moves to stand, gathering her strewn papers. This was unexpected, right when she wasn’t thinking about her, she appears.

“It’s fine.” She sits facing her and for the first time in the presence of a company, her shoulders slump and she slouches a little. God what will her mother say?

“Bad day?” Morgan sits back down, clearing her things from Poppy’s side of the table. She looked different from the girl who walked in the other day, her confidence evaporated and her shoulders slump in exhaustion or maybe it was defeat.

“You could say that. Why? Are you playing the role of bartender tonight?” Poppy smiles wider at her attempt, shedding her guarded expression.

“That bad huh? I’m just a barista on break.”

They sit in silence, minding their own business. Morgan sneaks a glance or two or maybe five. She figured it out, the depth in her eyes. She should have brought her sketchbook, if she drew her now she’s sure it’ll be perfect.

You could just take a picture if you keep glancing at me.” Poppy was observing her from her periphery, she looked like she’s committing every feature in her mind, but her eyes were searching for something she wasn’t sure she has.

Morgan breaks out of her momentary trance. “Oh my god. I’m sorry, that was creepy.” She stands immediately but Poppy’s hands on her wrist stops her from leaving.

“It’s fine, stay for a moment, is your break over?” Poppy retracts her hands immediately. She didn’t know what possessed her to stop her from leaving, she cringes inwardly.

“Still got 15 mins.” Morgan replies, oblivious of Poppy’s internal struggle.

“I wouldn’t mind the company.” She surprises herself at the words that came out of her own mouth.

“Okay.”

“I’ll forgive you if you answer one question.”

“If this is about the staring, I’m sorry. You’re not even my type.”

“Wha- No. What do you mean I’m not your type? I’m everybody’s type!” Never before has she felt insulted all her life, but the mischievous smile on the barista’s face was making it hard to hide a smile, she diffuses the awkward atmosphere Poppy created.

“Oh, so you want to be my type?” She winks, she couldn’t resist flirting a little. Good thing her manager’s not here or she’ll never hear the end of it.

“You wish, but anyway that’s not the question.” Poppy shakes her head. She admits the barista was a teensy bit charming.

“Shoot.”

“What do you do if you feel like you’ve lost control of your life?” She knows it’s weird to ask a person she just met but she needed an outsider’s perspective. Besides the girl looked kind and she felt strangely familiar.

“Uh- That’s deep? I thought you’re going to ask for my number.” Morgan scratches her head at the unexpected question.

Poppy almost takes it back, seeing the look of deep thought in the barista’s face.

“I start doing things that make me happy and things I wanted that people don’t want you to do.” Morgan answers truthfully, that’s what she did. She wouldn’t have come this far to study architecture if she didn’t steer herself to reach for it.

“That’s easy to say but the hardest thing in the world is to do what you wanted. What about the people I’ll disappoint? What will they think of me?”

“Yeah change is always hard and you’ll spend time trying to unlearn things that society ingrained in you but they shouldn’t get to live your life for you. The hardest thing is taking the first step. You can start with small things to get your footing, what’s important is you try to take some of the control back. What simple thing are you holding back from because of societal expectations? Morgan understood her reluctance, maybe if she was in her position she might have never taken her own advice.

“Hmmm- I have never eaten cake for years.” Poppy hums in thought. She suppresses a chuckle at her scandalized expression.

“ _What the f_ \- Seriously?” At Poppy’s small nod she clears her throat, feeling bad for judging. “Start with that, maybe a simple vanilla cake first then try to move on to some decadent chocolate cake. It’s all about resistance, you should resist coming back to what society expects you to do. Forge your own path and take ownership, you’ll never be happy when you keep living for others.”

Poppy stared silently at her, trying to take her advice to heart.

“Sorry, I couldn’t be much help.” Morgan glances helplessly at her watch.

“You were, Thank you.” Poppy says sincerely.

“You know most people go to bars and vent to their bartender and here you are a coffee shop venting to a barista.“ Morgan tries to lighten the mood, she wondered if she’s said too much and she didn’t have the time to fix anything she messed up, her break ends in 2 minutes

"Yeah, lucky you.” Poppy chuckles. “Sorry for disturbing you.”

“It’s fine, you’re a welcome distraction.

“Why, aren’t you smooth?”

“I like to think so. Listen, I’ve gotta go back to my shift, for real this time. Good luck.” Morgan hesitantly says her goodbye.

“Thank you.”

“Oh wait! Here, you can have it. When I feel like I’ve lost my path I read this.” Morgan digs through her wallet, pulling out a folded piece of paper and offers it to her. She turns and leaves without another word. She hoped it will offer her guidance the same way it did for her.

She catches sight of her name tag and commits the barista’s name to memory. _Sam._

She unfolds the paper and reads a short poem. “Invictus?” How come she’s never come across this before.

**_I am the master of my fate,_ **

**_I am the captain of my soul._ **

She smiles when a different barista sets a vanilla cake in front of her. She cranes her neck trying to catch sight of Morgan to say thank you but she’s disappeared out back. She takes a forkful and for the first time this week she felt lighter and happy.


	6. Chapter 6

**MORGAN POV**

Morgan takes the stairs, taking the steps by twos. She could tell that she wouldn’t make the last step even before her foot got caught on the riser. She barely catches herself on the handrail before she made a fool of herself for falling from these dingy stairs. If her landlord finds her sprawled and dead, she has no doubt that he’ll just sigh at the inconvenience, that is as much incentive not to cause an unfortunate accident. She curses the person who made these steps uneven, with a shake of her head she powers on, she has pressing matters to attend to.

Pressing matters, namely putting a certain image in paper. She felt that if she wasn’t quick enough she’ll lose the image to the dark crevices of her mind. She pondered on the way back what medium she’ll use, what was worthy of capturing her features on paper. If there was such thing, she’d yet to discover it.

She fumbles with the door for a moment, lifting the knob and giving the door a quick shove. She steadies herself, grinning as if she’d achieved an extremely difficult task. She’s glad there’s no one to see her, only she could make opening a door a tasteless activity.

She reaches for her stash of art materials, riffling through different papers and canvas. Watercolour it is, she decided. She would have preferred an easier medium but in her mind it was the only medium capable of capturing the refinement of her delicate features. It was quite a challenge, normally she would have chosen an opaquer medium to cover whatever errors she may make and watercolour is precisely the opposite of that, it was unforgiving but the result is worth whatever blood and tears the artist might shed. She made it sound bad but nothing comes close to giving her justice like it can.

She chose the largest sized paper in her stock. One of the most expensive papers she bought with her first pay check. She finally found a use for it, she has a bad habit of buying art stuff that she leaves unused, the same way people collect notebooks for the sheer enjoyment of purchasing one. She’s got piles of it, she doesn’t think about how much it may have collectively cost.

She sets the paper on her drawing desk, deftly taping the corners, hoping to god that it wouldn't tear once she removes it. The paint can only do as great as the paper you use, especially with this medium, you need a 100% cotton paper, thick enough so the water wouldn’t eat through it, hold the pigment well and take as much water you apply through layers and layers. There is no covering up errors with this medium due to its transparent nature. Watercolours made her cry once, not one of her proudest moment. Her landscape portrait was doing great until some particles of the cheap paper lifted of as she layered her paints.

She starts sketching the image she could still clearly recall. She takes a deep breath and starts to wet the entirety of the paper. Her hands falter for a moment, she couldn’t understand why she felt nervous. She steadies her hands, applying the first strokes that carried pigment defining a part of the background. The first brush of colour always the hardest, making her hesitate but after a few moments of laying down the first wash she finds herself completely lost in painting.

She finally breaks out of her concentration several hours later, she stretches her back and she could feel the strain of sticking to one position for several of those hours. She could barely feel her arms and her back protests with every movement but all those aches faded when she scans the entirety of the painting.

Her gaze falls to the locks of strawberry blonde hair, she directed her light source to the right of her head, where the windows of the café were bathing her with warm sunlight when she first saw her. Her blonde hair was lit by the sun an almost white halo of tendrils where the sun hit her perfectly. From how she talked about yesterday, she was half inclined to paint her sad smile but it was completely overshadowed by the memory of her giving her a knowing smile, curling the corners of her mouth, it reminded her of the first time she looked up at the person stealing her table. Her eyes were the highlight of the painting, it was bright and warm, inviting and yet a trace of sadness. She always found it difficult, drawing people’s eyes, you can only truly make your painting feel alive by the emotion so when she does capture the life in a person's eyes, it's quite the reward.

She waits for an opportunity to see a person's expression in a short second between breaths, a single moment of a person’s dynamism in pause captured in paper. That’s where she liked to take her image.

For a moment her fingers twitched with the urge to trace her delicate features, she stops herself before her hands smudged the wet paint. She could barely believe she’s done it, been an instrument for capturing perfection. The girl consumed her, seizing her thoughts for herself. If she could so much engrave herself to Morgan’s mind in just a couple of minutes of casual talks and a few stolen glances, she could hardly imagine what she could do in a longer span of time.

All that’s left to do is to wait for the painting to dry. Now she could finally rest, she glances at the window and sees daylight breaking, to her surprise. Has she really painted that long? Thank god her shift tomorrow won’t be early in the morning or she wouldn’t survive the work day. She turns off the light and collapses to her bed, her back thanking her. She looks back at the painting as the first of the sunrays hits half of the image. Ethereal was the last thought she could muster before she surrenders to sleep.

* * *

It was well past noon before she woke up, the harsh sunlight hit her eyes, enough to pull her from sleep. She stares at the ceiling, contemplating everything that happened yesterday, still fresh in her mind.

“Jesus Christ.” Morgan grimaces. Second hand embarrassment nipped at her. If anyone ever died from the sensation, bury her along with them. It was an unwelcome trip down her memory. The customer from yesterday wouldn’t release her mind from the embarrassment. Who even- _Invictus? Unwanted advices? Who even is she?_

She lifts herself off her bed with a shudder, feet hitting the cold wood floor and coming face to face with the object of her current distress. After clearing her mind, she admits that she did a good job of painting her, not perfect mind you but better than she expected. She finds herself staring at the endless pool of warm brown eyes, she’d captured that right.

Delicately, she removes the tape, sighing in relief that the paper wasn’t torn. She mounts it in a board and sandwiches it with another board, keepung it with her other pieces, at least until she could buy proper materials to frame it, then it would reside in a wall somewhere within the four walls of her apartment. She looks at the clock; she has at least some time to grab a quick lunch at the diner before her shift.

She drags her feet back from the shower, the hot water did little to relieve the slight ache in her back, she wasn’t as young as she thought she’d feel. She poured hours like these before but now she could feel the strain it did to her body. She grabs a few things for class later and Sam’s things, shoving it without thinking into her bag before exiting her apartment. Locking the door was as pure bother as it was opening it, she really should have that fixed.

She takes her lunch at the diner sans coffee, for the food the diner excelled in, it made even suckier coffee than Steve’s breakroom coffee and that says something. She’d have to buy a cup at the coffee shop anyway at least then it wouldn’t suck. She makes her way out and crosses the street to her work.

The bell jingles, the ambient noise of the coffee shop welcomes her from the harsh sounds from outside. She beams and waves a quick hello to Sam, quickly ducking to the staff lockers to change into her uniform, a black polo. She fastens her nametag and dons her apron.

“Sammy. Here, I got it washed and good as new. Thanks by the way.” Morgan hands over the apron like an offering, she left hers yesterday rushing from class, Sam was kind enough to loan hers after her shift.

“You even shined my nametag! Great. After Steve chewed me out earlier for not having it.” Sam crosses her arms in mock anger.

“Sorry but how angry can he really be, he’s your Dad.” Morgan shrugs apologetically. She doesn’t have to imagine how rough that must have been, she’s been through it several times. “I promise I had the intention to sneak it back to your locker but I forgot. I was preoccupied”

“That just means he can make life harder for me. At least after work you get to scurry away, but me? I have to suffer with him back at home. Anyway, you look like shit. You stayed up watching one of those zombie series again?” Sam smirks at her, looking her up and down.

“Nah… I was just preoccupied.” Morgan puts down her coffee a with a little more force than necessary, the black liquid sloshing to the counter, she sighs and leans her forehead to Sam’s shoulders. “I’m so tired.”

“Got your mind preoccupied by a girl then?” Sam questions her knowingly.

“What… No.” Morgan half-heartedly denies, turning away to wipe the spilled liquid and mostly to hide her blush.

“You suck at lying. Who is she?”

“I didn’t… I forgot to ask for her name.” Morgan slumps her shoulders.

“Well… Sounds like you. You’re terrible, how could you forget to ask?” Sam chuckles. “Wait! I know. She’s cute, enough that you tucked your tail and ran. If we’d been on the same shift yesterday, I would have shoved you in her direction.”

“No… I didn’t run. I spoke with her but I just forgot okay! I was preoccupied. Remember the girl I was asking you about? Yeah… That’s the one” Morgan rubs the back of her neck, a blush couldn’t seem to leave her face.

“Again with the denial. When you see her again point her to me, I can’t believe I haven’t seen her around.”

“You’ll embarrass me. You can never see her.” Morgan looks at Sam suspiciously. She could tell that she was thinking of ways to push them together.

“I’m hurt. I would never embarrass you.” Sam denies but at Morgan’s blank stare she laughs. “Okay, maybe just a little.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Morgan sighs.

* * *

Someone sat beside Morgan at her usual table and as fiercely private as she is, maybe a little selfish, she goes outside to read Poppy’s letter away from prying eyes.

**_Anyone who could see things the way you do and make things feel alive on paper is bound to be interesting. Besides you aren’t boring me, you’re really easy to talk to. ~~It’s a surprise to find someone~~ Something is different about you Morgan and I want to pick around in your mind. Tell me, how do you come up with those beautiful drawings?_ **

**_It’s okay if you don’t have it figured out yet. tbh, I don’t know either. Sometimes I feel like a person who existed to make others happy. A mess of different personalities taken from others and no thoughts of my own. I wish I could just be selfish just one time, just to taste it._ **

**_-P_ **

****

Morgan leans against the wall outside her anthro room. Reading the latest note from Poppy makes her smile and frown. The last few lines made her heart clench, the words were so familiar it felt like déjà vu, she had that unmistakable familiarity nipping at the back of her mind. Weird but not that weird, she has vibes about these things. But that’s all there is, just vibes.

She feels for her, she assumes she’s drowning from expectations from her family. It’s hard to break away when you were nurtured from the get go to please them. It’s particularly a familiar situation the students of Belvoire were involved with, it’s what made Prof. Kinsley’s research interesting. It was a superficial thing to believe that the behaviour they're displaying was the nature of rich students, observing how they carried themselves or how they treated others around them but delve deep within their lives you could find where they lack and find their monsters.

Her train of thought breaks as she sees Kingsley approach and motion her back into the room. She smiles back and nods. Approaching her usual chair and again automatically tunes the lecture out and she finds herself absorbed in thinking about the person on the other end of the letter.

**_Thank you for saying that, art has always held a special place in my heart, they convey what my words can't_.** **_It feels like sharing something with the viewer, only the both of you would understand. I think art is having the courage sharing bits of your soul and leaving them for the world to see, to love, to hate and to understand in their own way._ **

****

**_You are living and breathing, you are your own person, never other people’s expectations. You can feel and you can speak your own thoughts, don't you? I know how it feels like to live up to someone’s expectations and fall short. I’d be the last one to tell you to just pack up and go this instant. I know how hard it can be perhaps the hardest thing in the world, living for yourself, being happy just for you, I mean. But it’s not impossible, takes a massive amount of work and courage to unlearn things and just be happy and you could do it one step at a time. It’s not selfish, just think of it as a duty to yourself, to be happy, really happy not only because you make others happy._ **

****

**_I’m sorry if I’m a little aggressive with the advice but I hope you know you’re free to carve your own path in this world and whatever you wish to do, I hope you could find happiness with._ **

**_You remind me of someone I had the pleasure of meeting a few days ago. I hope I gave her a sound advice then and I do hope you as well. I’ll always be here of you need someone to talk to. I would never judge you and in fact I'm rooting for you._ **

**_-M_ **

* * *

**POPPY POV**

Poppy reads the letter over and over. The first time in class, the second time at the girl’s bathroom after she excused herself. She’s surprised by how much she valued this stranger’s words, it was a welcome reprieve from the judgement and expectations of the whole school, her friends and family.

**_You lie. You’re good with words too and they mean so much to me so thank you. It hasn’t been always easy pretending to be perfect. I know you could roll your eyes here but the keyword is pretending. It’s something I had always done and it feels like it’s become part of me and I don’t know who I am without it. I know I could trust you. For one, you haven’t revealed to the whole school that I’m writing to some stranger about my life, only you aren’t a stranger, not anymore. You’re a friend and thank you for that. You single handedly kept me sane these past few days._ **

**_I would never wish this feeling on anyone , not even my enemies. I hope that stranger took your advice, at least your advice to me was sound. (I don’t know about your advice to her. :P) I must have said as many thanks to you as I have my entire life up till yesterday but thank you for listening or... reading. You know I would listen to whatever you wish to tell me and I would never judge you as well, don't think this is a one-way street._**

**_-P_ **

****

She doesn’t know what possessed her to offer what might as well be an invitation to her heart to some strang- no, Morgan. There was something liberating about telling someone her problems without being judged. She can’t even tell her closest friends, when they turn on her, like they always do, it’s best not to give them more ammunition to use against her.

_“Morgan.”_ Poppy tests the feel of her name on her lips. If this is some sort of elaborate guise just to get her deepest secrets, she’s dug herself a deep enough hole to lie in but against her better judgement she takes the risk and gives her trust and friendship to the person on the other end of the letters.

Something felt right about this time, she felt free and for the first time in while she felt happy. She clutched the letter close to her heart, it might be too sentimental of her to be doing this but you don’t know how hard it was being alone in a sea of people who think they know you and judge you then finding someone who was the opposite of all that. No one can blame her for clutching to it like a lifeline.

She slips her note under her desk with a small smile. Curiosity gripped the back of her mind and she thinks about what it’s like to meet Morgan, would it be like meeting a long lost friend or maybe the keeper of the other half of her soul. She should have asked for Morgan’s number but she still wasn’t ready to let go of writing, it was therapeutic and she has a feeling it will be different once they switch. So for a little while longer she savours the moment until her curiosity becomes too much to bear.

Just a while longer.

* * *

She meets up with friends late that afternoon and as much as she wants to skip and just hide away in that little coffee shop she discovered, as nosy as they are, they might press her for it and she’s not ready to share it yet… maybe even never.

“Why so happy, Pop? Did something good happen?” Chloe asks good naturedly. It’s rare to see Poppy smile even weeks after the visit from her mother.

“No. It’s just- I’m just feeling great today.” Poppy catches herself before hinting at the real reason why she’s happy.

“Come on, spill. Did you meet someone?” Veronica looks up from her phone and raises a questioning eyebrow.

“I wish…” Well that’s not a lie, she does want to meet Morgan. She’s thankfully released from the interrogation once Chloe and Veronica are sufficiently distracted by the colourful knick knacks on the shelf.

After four hours of shopping, they settled in the back of Poppy’s limo. She can’t wait to get home and slip out of these heels.

“I know you’re not ready to talk about it but we’re happy that you’re happy, whatever the cause is.” Chloe speaks to her in a low voice while Veronica live blogs a couple of seats away. Chloe smiles genuinely and joins Veronica’s antics. She looks at them curiously before being dragged along into Veronica's live vlogging.


End file.
